


A Spoonful of Sugar (Medicine for the Soul)

by forestdivinity (ForestDivinity)



Series: One Shots [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25032109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForestDivinity/pseuds/forestdivinity
Summary: Jaskier is twenty-two the first time he gets sick while he's with Geralt. Properly sick, that is. He doesn't expect Geralt to care so much for him, in his own gruff way.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: One Shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/535576
Comments: 21
Kudos: 407





	A Spoonful of Sugar (Medicine for the Soul)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt on tumblr! 
> 
> _Geralt taking care of Jaskier (who is sick/injured/hungover/whatever) and trying to show that he cares and be tough and manly with no emotions at the same time ___
> 
> __This became more about Jaskier and being sick oops but Geralt is definitely doing his best to care!_ _

Jaskier is twenty-two the first time he gets sick while he's with Geralt. Properly sick, that is. He's had a cold, once or twice, a stuffed up nose and phlegmy throat that makes it hard to swallow and harder still to breathe, but illnesses such as a common cold are easy enough to push through, what with plenty of honey tea and a good dose of fresh air. Jaskier is well used to the common cold and all its annoyances, just like any other man on the Continent and especially a man from Kerack. 

But this time it is more than a common cold that has him ill. 

The first tip that something wasn't quite right was when he'd awoken with both crusty eyes and a throat that throbbed and ached like he'd swallowed a thorn bush. Jaskier was, of course, a bard and his throat was his most important instrument, only equalled by his hands and his precious lute. While a cold could make it stuffy, it was rare for it to get to the point of being unable to sing, let alone unable to talk.

So, that had been the first sign. 

And then there had been the headache. It came and went in a manner reminiscent of his companion and Jaskier - in the privacy of his own thoughts - had named it Geralt. No matter how much air he took, or how much water he drank the headache was persistent, growing in intensity until Jaskier could feel it throbbing behind his eyes in a most unpleasant manner. 

And then there had been the godawful dizziness. The vertigo that made it hard to see without wanting to vomit. Jaskier had woken up that morning, walked three steps, and then collapsed into a groaning pile, not knowing which way was up and which way was down. Geralt - the Witcher, not his headache - had taken one look at him and grunted, the useless bastard and had Jaskier been more of sound mind he would have at the very least shown him the middle finger.

Instead, all he could do was moan pathetically, wondering when the world had started to spin and spin and spin. 

Finally, not hours later, had come the fever. Geralt had already placed him back into his bedroll by that point, and Jaskier was fitfully throwing it on and off. His body flitted between hot and cold, unable to find a decent temperature. Across from him, Geralt scowled. He was in the middle of building up the campfire once again, piling it with sticks and wood in order to get it going. 

Jaskier, feeling like absolute shit, groaned in his general direction. He closed his eyes again, hoping it might help with the still constant spinning of his head. It didn't do much.

He only startled a touch when he felt a hand brushing the top of his head.

"Whaghh 'oing-" When he looked up again, there was a shape looming over him that could possibly be the figure of a man. Geralt tilted strangely from side to side as if doing an odd dance. That didn't seem right at all. Jaskier had never seen Geralt dance in his life and now would be a strange time to start.

Maybe it was his eyes.

"Hm." Geralt grunted. That was certainly more like him but didn't precisely answer Jaskier's question of ' _ what exactly are you doing touching me?'.  _ Not that it had come out that way, but the idea was still there. He did his best to glare at Geralt for his non-answer. It came out more of a squint.

"Stay here." Geralt told him. Jaskier was filled with an urge to throw something at him, but alas he had nothing to throw. Instead, he went to smack him, his hand flopping out limply to the side. Jaskier groaned in frustration and wondered when exactly his body had decided to stop working. 

Where, exactly, was he supposed to go?

And for that matter, where the fuck was Geralt going? He huffed out a breath and regretted it for how it made him choke on his own sore throat. The sound quickly devolved into a series of wheezing coughs that rattled his chest painfully and brought tears of exertion to his eyes. Geralt knelt beside him again and brought him into sitting position. When the water skin was placed against his lips, Jaskier drank in short gulps, grateful for the cool slide of it.

"'ank 'ou." He grumbled, still feeling annoyed but unable to really hold onto it any longer. His emotions felt slippery like eels. Not, that he'd ever grasped an eel in his life, but Jemson - whose father had been a fisherman - had often talked of them. Slimy, wriggly things that slipped from your grasp as easily as a bar of soap. 

Soap. Hope. He hoped this bloody sickness would go away soon. He barely noticed Geralt laying him back down until he realised he was staring at a canopy of spinning green again and he whined pathetically in the back of his throat. 

"Stay." Geralt told him again. Where on earth did the bloody man think he was going to go? He could barely drink a mouthful of water by himself. Jaskier didn't want to be left alone. He closed his eyes again, not wanting to think of being left out in the cold, of being forgotten about. Jaskier wondered if he was the eel, always slipping out of sight and out of mind. A spinning, slippery eel, swimming around and around in the ocean blue.

* * *

He woke up. The sun was beginning to set, casting shades of orange and red through the trees. Jaskier didn't remember falling asleep. He stared at the patterns the lights made, how it dripped and spilt through the leaves like paint. Did his mother still like to paint? Jaskier didn't know the last time he'd seen her with her brushes. Was she around now?

Someone grunted. Geralt?

Jaskier turned his head to look at the sound. It was Geralt! He grunted again, and Jaskier whined as the sound made his head pound and he flung the bedroll open, suddenly too hot for his own skin.

"No, Jaskier." Geralt told him, coming over and closing it again. Did he not understand that Jaskier was boiling like a pig in a stew? Hot! Too hot.

"No, you're not. You have a fever." Had he spoken aloud? "Yes."

Jaskier groaned and did his best to pull the bedroll open again. Geralt scowled at him and buttoned it up to the top so he couldn't wriggle his arms free. Jaskier scowled back for all of three seconds until it made his headache worse and then he slumped back against the ground with a huff.

Geralt, taciturn as ever, merely grunted again.

Time passed strangely. Jaskier likened it to the thick treacle that Cook had made when he was a child. He had never known her name, and he regretted it now. What sort of man doesn't know the name of someone he grew up with? The treacle was the important part though. Thick and sticky and sweet. Jaskier had enjoyed watching it drop of his spoon, the slow fall of it, the drop shining in the candlelight. 

What he wouldn't give for a spoonful of treacle now. Would Cook still be there, stern-faced as ever? She and Geralt were quite alike, really. 

He blinked, and it was darker still, evening fading into night. In front of him, the fire crackled, two iron pots hanging above it. Jaskier tried to sniff, tried to find out just what was cooking, but his nose was blocked, and his tongue felt furry and dry inside his mouth.

"Stew," Geralt said after a moment, "rabbit stew. And medicine for your fever."

Jaskier made a face at the thought of medicine, the bitter taste of it was never something to be enjoyed.

"Stay sick then." Geralt huffed. In his bedroll, Jaskier squirmed and hoped it was close enough to a middle finger that Geralt got his point. The action made him cough, and Geralt sighed but dutifully came over with the water skin.

This time he unbuttoned Jaskier from the bedroll, helping him up to drink. His shirt was soaked through with sweat. Jaskier swayed from side to side until Geralt caught him and drew him close and Jaskier tucked into the broad expanse of his body. He remembered, when he'd been very small, how his father had held him close through his first fever. They'd read a book about a knight, and a dragon and Jaskier had spent three months insisting he would join the service when he grew up.

"Let's eat." Geralt told him. He helped Jaskier closer to the fire and propped him up against a log. Jaskier looked at the flames, the way they seemed to dance and pop before him. Were they dancing inside him too? Hot enough to burn him from the inside out, deadly if left unquenched.

"Medicine." Geralt grunted and knelt in front of him. The bowl of fluid was a bitter green in colour, a little thick and still warm from the fire. Jaskier turned his nose up at the sight of it, and Geralt sighed - likely in frustration.

"You need to drink it Jaskier. It'll help with the fever." He turned his head away with a huff. In front of him, Geralt sighed, and he tapped his fingers along the little wooden bowl. For a moment, they sat at a stalemate; Jaskier stared at the fire, and Geralt stared at him. 

"Please, Jaskier." The word was practically bitten out, but Geralt had never said please to him before. Jaskier imagined hearing it again, felt his heart melt and ache a little in his chest. He huffed and held his hands out for the bowl.

"Fine." Oh, sweet Melitele, he sounded grumpier than Geralt after getting stiffed on payment. That wouldn't do. Jaskier took the medicine and drank it down in three long swallows, it tasted bitter and faintly of mint. The thick concoction felt soothing on his scratchy throat, but Jaskier still made a face at the taste of it, muted as it was by his sickness. 

Geralt grunted and nodded at him. The fire inside of Jaskier bloomed again, but it didn't feel like fever any longer. He wondered how long Geralt had spent finding the right herbs, all the leafy things that went into his medicine. Medicine Geralt had made for him. Jaskier hummed to himself, and Geralt scowled, and it all felt like their usual routine, if slightly quieter.

For once, Jaskier let himself sit in the silence and watched the fire without complaint. Somewhere, in the back of his throat, he tasted sugar, and he smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Pure fluff, its been a while since I wrote something soft, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr [@ashayathyla](https://ashayathyla.tumblr.com/) and on twitter [@loudly_spence](https://twitter.com/loudly_spence)


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